


Never Will I Forget The Deep Shadows, Never Will I Waste The Moon’s Light

by afteriwake



Series: WIP Big Bang Accomplishments [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 02, Alternate Universe - Magic, Awesome Molly Hooper, Bar Room Brawl, Big Brother Mycroft, Epilogue, Gen, Helpful Animals, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sherlock, Magic Prison, Magic-User Moriarty, Magic-User Mycroft, Magic-User Sherlock, Magic-Users, Magical Sherlock, Mentioned John Watson, Moriarty Captures Sherlock And Molly, Moriarty Is A Dick, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes Feels, Mycroft's Meddling, Oracles, POV Molly Hooper, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV shift, Poor Sherlock, Prophecy, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Sherlock returns, Sherlock-centric, Talking Animals, To Be Continued, magic cats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-30 05:05:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 19,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5151359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Holmes brothers come from a long line of powerful magic practitioners, but they are forced to keep their skills a secret. When Molly accidentally finds out about Sherlock’s powers and doesn’t turn away from him he slowly realizes that this pleases him, but soon enough he gets careless and is put in a position he would rather not be in, especially when others find out that she knows and attempt to use her as a pawn in their own games and machinations.</p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <a href="https://s13.postimg.org/70ck6zrkn/sherlockdsk_wipbang_afteriwake.jpg"></a><br/>    <img/><br/><span class="small"><b>Credit:</b> <i><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/red_b_rackham/pseuds/red_b_rackham">AO3</a></i> | <i><a href="http://red-b-rackham.livejournal.com/">LJ</a></i> | <i><a href="http://red-b-rackham.dreamwidth.org/">DW</a></i> | <i><a href="http://redrackham87.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a></i></span><br/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sirro134](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirro134/gifts), [renniejoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renniejoy/gifts), [red_b_rackham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_b_rackham/gifts).



> So one of my requested prompts is for the lovely **sirro134** and is _supposed_ to be a 5K to 6K long fic that started with the idea of " _Mycroft and Sherlock were born with the ability to use magic. Magic in the same way that the druids used to hundreds of years prior. They grew up learning how to use it and how to hide it as well. One of the consequences of their gift is that if they do not use magic in some way after a few days, they start to show signs of withdrawal. My idea is that one Sherlock accidentally uses some and Molly sees him do so._ " And then we elaborated on it, and...it's probably going to go way over the word count. But I'm _really_ excited to write this so I don't care. This fic is kind of inspired by the TV series Merlin, so the magic stuff is going to be based more of their version of magic than anything else, just so you know. But anyway, even though this isn't going to be a shippy fic, I do hope you'll enjoy reading it anyway!
> 
> Many thanks to my beta **renniejoy** for all her help and **red_b_rackham** for the lovely artwork accompanying this story (click the images for the full size pictures)!

[](https://s4.postimg.org/e6zmd0e8d/sherlockdsk3_wipbang_afteriwake3.jpg)  
**Credit:** _[AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/red_b_rackham/pseuds/red_b_rackham)_ | _[LJ](http://red-b-rackham.livejournal.com/)_ | _[DW](http://red-b-rackham.dreamwidth.org/)_ | _[Tumblr](http://redrackham87.tumblr.com/)_

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Mycroft stood regally by the fireplace in his study. ”You know you have to keep it a secret, Sherlock. No mortal can know.”

He was lounging in the chair he favored, his leg over the arm. Only when he _really_ wanted to annoy his brother did he toss all sense of decorum and propriety out the window, especially since the chair wasn’t that comfortable to begin with and the position made it less so. ”Easy enough for you to say. Your assistant who’s tied to you nearly twenty-four hours a day is one of us.”

“Well, that’s what you get for going and getting attached to a mortal army doctor, a mortal pathologist and a mortal inspector at Scotland Yard,” Mycroft said, a hint of snideness in his tone.

“And a mortal housekeeper,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Yes, I know. I set myself up among mortals. I purposefully chose to live among them. It’s my own fault for that. Etcetera, etcetera. You’ve had this tune for years.” He couldn’t stand the position anymore so he put himself to rights and then simply slumped to the side, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair and settling his cheek on his knuckles. “At least I didn’t become a hermit like Sherrinford.”

“Sherrinford had no other choice,” Mycroft said quietly, gazing into the fire. “Not after the incident.” He lifted the snifter of brandy in his hand and took a sip. “And if you aren’t careful, Sherlock, with your continued pushing yourself to your absolute limits, you might be next.”

Sherlock bit back a sigh. His brother had always felt himself his keeper, ever since he was young. It appeared that would never change, not in a million years. He wondered when he would ever get out from under his brother’s thumb. Possibly never, he supposed. Perhaps if Sherrinford…no, it didn’t do to dwell on that. No one in the family talked about it. No one admitted that Sherrinford existed, for the most part. He was an afterthought these days, as though he had never really been a part of the family.

He supposed if he wasn’t careful, one day, he might be an afterthought as well.

The world knew he was different. They knew he was a genius, a man who could solve the trickiest of tricky crimes. The ones that were deemed unsolvable by most. His reputation had grown steadily larger as time had gone by, ever since John had come into his life and started keeping the blog. The Detective and the Blogger, the Crime Fighting Duo. Oh, there were so many monikers for them, so many names. He was someone the world thought they knew every fascinating tidbit about, and what they didn’t know they wanted to learn.

But there was one secret they absolutely _couldn’t_ know, as his brother was just now reminding him.

He, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, had been born with the ability to do magic. 

Not the cheap parlour tricks that stage magicians could do, the illusions meant to wow and mystify and audience, the type of stuff that could be easily debunked. No, he knew real magic. Old magic. The kind of magic that traveled through bloodlines as old as time immortal, the stuff Druids talked of long ago. He could do almost anything, really. For one as young as he was, for someone who honestly didn’t study ancient texts half as hard as his brothers had or practice anything near as much he was twice as powerful as they were.

He just…didn’t care. It made him different, even more different than he already was. His brilliance had set him apart in many ways; being able to do magic, being something _separate_ than mere mortals had been icing on a cake he had simply not wanted. When he had been a young child he had reveled in it, but when he got older, when Mycroft pressed the importance of hiding his abilities, hiding the truth about himself, when he saw what happened when someone trusted the wrong person…he was more than eager to do so. Being seen as just a cold, egotistical genius was fine by him.

And yet when Donovan had called him a freak he’d hated that term so much. He’d always kept that icy demeanor when she said it but the words hit like a blow to the gut. It was the worst thing to hear, the one insult that actually hurt. When the children he’d been around growing up had called him that, he’d held back tears until he had absolute privacy, then let tears fall. When he’d heard it as a teen, and later in his university years, he’d turned to heroin to numb it all away. By the time he was an adult he’d swallow it down and let it sit there, cutting on the way down, making him hate the world just a little more.

But his friends had healed those bits of him. It was true they didn’t know they whole truth, they could _never_ know the whole truth, but over time, John and Molly and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had made him feel…normal. Or at least more normal than he had ever felt in his life before. He appreciated that more than he could tell them. He wasn’t great at showing it, unfortunately; the Christmas party had made that abundantly clear, but he was willing to try harder. He supposed he could say it was a New Year’s resolution, if he actually believed in that type of twaddle. They had done some good for him; he supposed he should be better at showing them that they were important to him.

Even if they were mortal, and that meant he had to listen to his brother make snide commentary on the fact.

Mycroft turned to him. “You can’t afford to go into withdrawal, Sherlock,” he said. “I do not have the time, energy or resources to bring you out of it without questions being raised.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re worried I’ll get careless and get caught because I’ve surrounded myself with mortals,” he said. “Mycroft, it’s not as though I spend my evenings in the sitting room. I do happen to have a bedroom, which is fitted, if you might recall, with a very good lock. Even _you_ have trouble picking it.”

Mycroft glared slightly. “Still. You have a tendency to be reckless.”

Sherlock shook his head and stood up. “One day, brother dear, you’ll realize I am fully capable of living a life without your constant observation and interference. When that day comes, I’m sure I can have a list handy of other hobbies to catch your interest.” He made his way to the door of Mycroft’s study. “Good night.”

Mycroft said nothing and Sherlock opened the door and let himself out. He glanced at the large clock in the foyer and saw that it was only eleven thirty. So. It was still the old year. At least he didn’t begin the new year listening to his brother berate him for sins of the past and mistakes he’d never be able to fully make up for. That would have been tiresome. Anthea stood by the door with his coat and he took it from her, slipping it on before leaving Mycroft’s fortress and going out into the night.

He was not one for celebrations, not one for good signs and good omens, but the fact that he could start this new year on his own, breathing in the relatively fresh air of the city, taking the essence of London into himself led him to think that, perhaps, 2012 would be better than he had expected. As bad as some of the glimpses of possible futures he’d been given indicated it very well might be, there had been good things as well, images of laughter and love and warmth, and that had given him hope. After all, no one’s future was writ in stone. That was something he had been taught from a very young age, when he first learned about the art of divination. There was always room for interpretation.

And as he had decided at a very young age that no one was going to decide what happened in his life other than himself, he was going to be damn sure that if there were bad things to come, that their impact was far less than the good things.

Mark his words.


	2. Chapter 2

He hated to admit it, but perhaps his brother had the tiniest bit of a point.

He’d been too wrapped up in this newest case. Too caught up in his theories and making sense of the evidence and chasing down all of the leads that had cropped up with each new tidbit. It had been five days and he hadn’t had time alone. He hadn’t had privacy.

And he was paying for it now.

All he wanted to do was get into Baker Street, lock himself in his bedroom and reenergize himself. Do the simplest magic he could to stave off withdrawal so he didn’t have to listen to his brother gloat about how he was right that his baby brother couldn’t handle the big bad world by himself. But no, there had been another body, which meant another trip to Barts, and he just wasn’t in the mood. 

He made his way through the doors, his movements slowed by the sheer exhaustion he was beginning to feel, and was met by Molly. He supposed he should thank Merlin for small favours. She took one look at him and her eyes widened. “Oh my God, Sherlock,” she said. “You look…”

“Horrible?” he said.

“Well, I _was_ going to say like utter shite, but…yes,” she said.

He winced slightly at that. Molly wasn’t the type to use profanity, so for her to think he looked that bad must mean he was worse than he thought. Withdrawal was going to come quickly and then he’d be completely and utterly screwed. “I know I need the results on the body but I think I need to get back to Baker Street.”

“No, no, of course,” Molly said, nodding with wide eyes. She looked around for a moment and then moved behind him and pushed him towards her office. “I’m going to take you home.”

“Your shift isn’t over,” he said.

“Well, it is in a little over two hours. But there’s a cot in the office. You’re going to lay down on that and rest and then I’m going to take you back.” She kept gently shoving him, being careful when he stumbled slightly, until they got to the office door. He reached for the knob and missed, and Molly opened it for them. When they got in she guided him to the cot and pushed him onto it. “I’ll draw the shades, and pull the cover over the window on the door. And I’ll leave you alone until I’m done, all right?”

Sherlock nodded, shrugging out of his coat and watching her as she puttered around, closing shades and blocking out the late afternoon sun. She didn’t realize that what she was doing was more helpful than she knew. There was magic he could do that would be undetectable to her, and if he could have complete privacy for two hours he could at least pull himself out of this state enough to not have to worry about going into withdrawal.

Withdrawal was a dangerous state to go into. each member of his kind that he’d met had different reactions to being in extreme withdrawal, but leading up to it there was extreme lethargy, jumbled thoughts, slowed reflexes, loss of memory and the close to a comatose state they slipped into the easier they were to manipulate by anyone with telepathic powers. Any mental shields someone had up were brought down, bit by bit. It was one of the most dangerous positions for anyone to be in, and having already been in it once in his life he didn’t want to be in it again.

Molly finished and then went over to pull a blanket out of a storage cabinet for Sherlock. “In case you need it,” she said.

He nodded. “Thank you,” he replied. She left the office and he relaxed in the darkened room. He had managed to last much longer than most his kind; his mother would brag that he was one of the strongest sorcerers she’d heard of, almost as strong as Merlin himself. He knew the longest Mycroft could go was three days. Sherrinford had gone four before his incident. The fact he was on day five and still coherent enough to hold a conversation with Molly and be able to do magic to start reversing the process was highly remarkable. Mycroft hated that so much, hated the fact that he was so much more powerful, that it all came so much more easily to him.

Just another reason they couldn’t stand each other, he supposed.

He focused on moving objects in the office. Telekinesis was easy enough for him, and so long as he didn’t move anything heavy it shouldn’t make too much noise. And if nothing else he could say he couldn’t sit still and the usual messy state of Molly’s office irritated him so he’d straightened it up, which should earn him some brownie point since she always said she really should do it. Her papers he’d leave alone, other than making sure the piles were neat. But he’d use his mind to surprise her with a neat, tidy office and stave off the effects of his withdrawal at the same time.

He sat on the cot and focused on the different objects on the room that he wanted to move. He could feel his body warm and he knew that if anyone walked in his eyes would be glowing gold as he was performing the magic. He could move multiple objects at once without giving each object his full and undivided attention; he’d spent years working on doing this. It had made cleaning his room as a boy much easier. He paced himself, though, to make sure he didn’t move things at a pace that would seem too fast for him to do by hand.

By the time he felt closer to normal and the office looked much more organized he shut his eyes and the last of the items settled into place from where they had been hovering in the air. He had timed it just perfectly because the office door opened a moment later. Molly gasped and he opened his eyes to see a wide smile blossom on her face. “Sherlock, you really didn’t have to,” she said. “You were supposed to rest.”

“I couldn’t sit still,” he said, taking the blanket off his lap.

Molly came closer to him, studying him more closely. “Well, you look better,” she said with a nod. “Do you still want to go to Baker Street? It hasn’t been quite two hours, but I felt bad making you stay here so I hurried up with my tests at the path lab.”

He shook his head. “I think I’m up for getting the autopsy results first,” he said, standing up. “Perhaps over dinner, as a thank you for letting me rest.”

She gave him a smile. “I’d like that,” she said with a nod. “haz St. Paul’s, maybe? If you’re up for Mediterranean?”

“That sounds acceptable,” he said. He put his coat back on as Molly gathered up her things to get ready to leave. It had been a close call; she had almost caught him performing magic. He had almost broken his oath of secrecy. He’d have to be more careful in the future. But at least for the moment, things would be all right. He was thankful for that much.


	3. Chapter 3

He had managed to get an entire day to sleep after his case was solved. It was not the deep sleep a wizard going into withdrawal slipped into, the one that took another wizard, or the combined might of several in severe cases, to pull them out of, but it was a much deeper sleep than he was used to. He knew that John had been concerned when he had not been able to rouse him, but he’d played it off as pulling two a few too many all-nighters in a row and utter exhaustion setting in, and John had bought it.

His brother, however, had not been so easily swayed.

Mycroft’s employee, whom Sherlock recognized as one of his own kind, was waiting for him when he shuffled out of his bedroom. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the man, who stood by the doorway to the stairs leading out to the front door. “If my brother is outside waiting, I am not going to rush on his account,” Sherlock said. “I’m going to have my coffee and some toast and possibly some cereal as well. If he wants to chat, he can get his arse out of his car and come inside.” 

The man said nothing, though Sherlock detected the barest hint of a smile on his face as he turned and made his way down the stairs, letting himself out of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock found that John had made coffee earlier and left some in the pot. It was lukewarm, but it was better than making a whole new pot, so he poured it into a mug and then took it to the microwave to reheat it. Then he went to the toaster and put in some bread to start the toast. He’d gotten a knife for the butter and a spoon for the cereal and just gone to the cupboard and pulled down a bowl for cereal when he heard the door open again. He didn’t bother to give the entrant a glance; he knew it was his brother. He could always sense when it was a member of his family in the room. “You’re being obstinate,” Mycroft said.

“I don’t feel like being at your beck and call so early this morning,” Sherlock said with a shrug, looking at the choices in cereal. John was in the middle of a health kick at the moment, trying to eat more healthily and lose a few stone. Boring choices, the lot of them. He sighed and pulled out a box of Mornflake Oatbran Flakes, which unfortunately for him were the original flavour. “What do you want that you were going to summon me in my pyjamas and dressing gown?”

“I had hoped you would be dressed properly,” his brother said.

“If you were going to send someone to fetch me first thing in the morning you damn well should have expected me in my dressing gown and pyjamas,” he said, pouring the cereal in the bowl and then going to get milk. Only then did he glance at his brother. Mycroft looked impeccable, as per usual. It had been a long time since he had seen his brother look anything but. Since Sherrinford‘s incident, he supposed. But then everyone had been out of sorts that day. He got the milk and took it back to the bowl, pouring some in and then putting it away before leaning against the worktop. He put his spoon in the cereal and took a bite. “What is so important you need to harass me first thing in the morning?”

“You’re pushing your limits too far,” Mycroft said, putting the tip of his umbrella on the ground and leaning on the handle. “I heard John Watson worry about not being able to rouse you. You didn’t slip into…a state, but you were close.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I did enough magic to keep myself from slipping into ‘a state,’ as you call it. I had also, as I’m sure you’re aware, since you have spies all over, not slept for days before hand. Sleeping for twenty-four hours straight would be normal by human standards, much less _our_ standards.” He took another bite of his cereal. “Bipolar people who crash from manic cycles do it, insomniacs do it when they finally can no longer sustain staying awake…it’s not unusual for mortals, Mycroft. John’s overreacting.”

“Still. Don’t make a habit of this,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, and set his bowl of cereal down with a little more force than necessary. “Mycroft, I am in my thirties. I am no longer a child, or in my teens, or in my university days. I am no longer a young man who needs his big brother dogging his every step, questioning his every decision. I am an adult who can make decisions on his own without having to run them by Big Brother or Mummy and Daddy every time I make them. Besides. Do Mum and Dad ever question my decisions?”

Mycroft scowled slightly. “They didn’t see the damage they did to yourself when you got mixed up in those human drugs,” he said.

“And I learned from that mistake,” Sherlock said quietly, coldly. Mycroft blinked at that, the scowl dropping off his face. Oh yes, apparently his older brother didn’t think he remembered the agony he had gone though, the hell that had been the withdrawal of his magical powers coupled with the withdrawal of heroin. No, he remembered it quite well. He vowed never to do that again, never to go back to that lifestyle completely. A little dabble in softer things, the drugs deemed safe by others of his kind every once in a while, but nothing as hard as heroin ever again. “Mycroft, leave me to live my life as I choose, to associate with who I please, human or not. You have made your choices. You were allowed that freedom. Mum and Dad gave that to you. Do me a favor and extend that courtesy to me.”

Mycroft studied him, and then shook his head. “For your protection, with Moriarty…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Then at the very least back off. Stop being so blatant about it. Stop sticking your nose in my business all the time.”

Mycroft considered that, and then nodded. “I suppose I can do that. But mark my words, Sherlock: if you give me reason to become heavily involved, I will become so entangled in your life you’ll wish you’d never asked for this. You’ll wish you’d left things as they were.”

Sherlock didn’t respond verbally, waving him off with one hand as he picked up his cereal bowl with the other. Mycroft took the hint and picked up his umbrella, turning and leaving the flat. Good riddance, Sherlock thought to himself. He ate some more of his cereal for a moment. Provided Mycroft actually did what he had just requested, he’d have some relative freedom, for the first time in ages. That would be nice. He’d have to see just what he could do with it.

And hopefully he’d get to keep it.


	4. Chapter 4

[](https://s21.postimg.org/5hxkajn7b/sherlockdsk2_wipbang_afteriwake2.jpg)  
**Credit:** _[AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/red_b_rackham/pseuds/red_b_rackham)_ | _[LJ](http://red-b-rackham.livejournal.com/)_ | _[DW](http://red-b-rackham.dreamwidth.org/)_ | _[Tumblr](http://redrackham87.tumblr.com/)_

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There was a curious sense of freedom he hadn’t felt in quite a long time, he realized, now that his brother wasn’t breathing down his neck. He could feel his brother’s presence lessened both in the amount of surveillance around him but also in other ways, in the ways only someone of their kind would feel. There was a feeling of almost euphoria that flowed through him when he realized that, for the first time in nearly ten years, he had almost complete freedom from the interference of his family.

It was damn near intoxicating.

And so he indulged in things he night not have done under other circumstances. He made more use of his magic. Perhaps not _always_ at the right time or the right place, but he was usually observant enough to make sure he didn’t get caught. And he tested his limits more than he had before, pushing himself to his extremes, always making sure he was smart enough never to go too far outside his limit or else he’d bring his older brother back into his life with a knowing smirk and a smug attitude. 

It was thrilling, this freedom.

He should have known he’d muck it up eventually, though. He’d get too careless, too cocky. 

He had been expecting results on an autopsy for a case, and usually Molly would text him when she was done. He’d expected it, after all these years. It was their routine. John was at the surgery, Mrs. Hudson was out of Baker Street for the afternoon running errands, and he’d been struck the evening before with a melody that wouldn’t leave his head. He wanted to get it out, jot it down, and see what he could do with it. And the best way to do that was to open himself up completely and let not just the music flow through him but his magic as well. Doing that in his bedroom was just not going to do. He needed to be in the sitting room.

He drew the curtains to make sure no prying eyes in the building across could see. It gave the room a rather cave-like atmosphere but he was fine with that. He could always make certain objects illuminate if he so chose, or cause the lamps to glow brighter or differently. While his brothers had always been so staid in their studies he’d pushed the envelope, seen how he could tweak his magic skills, expand upon the things he could do. Mycroft had once snidely remarked those skills would only make him good as a traveling sideshow attraction, a cheap carny act, but he’d found uses for them to make his life better, easier. At the very least they had made his life more _interesting_ , which was more than he could say for Mycroft.

Once he was sure that no one would disturb him, he went to his violin. That had been one area that he had excelled in that had surprised everyone and had made keeping their secret harder. No one in his family had had the skill with the instrument or the desire to learn aside from him, so they’d had to find him instruction elsewhere. When it became apparent that he was quite talented, perhaps even a prodigy, the attention had become a bit much. His parents had asked him to dull his talents when dealing with mortal teachers, and he had resented that. It had almost been enough to get him to resent the instrument and all it stood for.

Almost.

Truthfully, the particular instrument in his hands had saved his life. It had been one of his kind that had shown up in the throes of his withdrawal from the heroin and his inability to do his magic with this violin. He knew it was special, far more special than most realized. It wasn’t a Stradivarius or anything like that; no, if it was something as special as that he’d never play it. It _was_ an antique violin, though he had no clue who made it, just that it was at least two hundred years old, if not older. But it had been crafted by someone who practiced the Old Religion, and attuned to someone like him. It had been gifted to him from a friend, the person who had brought it had said, to help him in his recovery. Who this friend was, he still did not know. But the man who had brought it had taught him how to use it, how to focus with it and how to harness to power contained in it, how to draw from it and how to send power out from it.

This violin was more to him than just an instrument. It was a dear friend. Perhaps his dearest.

He tucked it under his chin and set bow to string, shutting his eyes as he began to think of the melody that had come to him. As he thought of it, he began to play it on the violin, as clearly as if it was pouring straight out of his head. That was part of the magic of this instrument; it was so clearly tuned to him that it seemed they were almost one and the same. He knew that so long as he could get the melody out he would have no trouble writing the notes on paper later. For now he would play them on the violin, get the beginning melody out and see what else he could do with it, where else he could take it.

He could feel the energy level rise in the room, and he knew as the music swelled, even with his eyes closed, that various objects were in the air, moving in time with the melody he was composing. Soon he began to movie, letting the music sway him. He was so caught up in it all, in the exuberance of it, that he didn’t hear the door open, didn’t hear feet coming up the stairs, didn’t hear anything at all until he heard Molly say softly “Oh, my.”

And then his eyes snapped open and everything came crashing to a halt in a sudden sharp discordant sound.

“Molly,” he said, his tone surprised and cold.

She held out a folder towards him. “I...had to meet a friend nearby, for lunch. I thought I’d bring you a copy of…were you…?” She swallowed slightly. “It was all…floating, and…moving…”

“Get out,” he said, his voice steely and his words clipped. Her eyes widened and she dropped the folder on the floor before turning and scurrying out of the sitting room. He set the violin on a chair and hung his head before going to the folder and picking up the papers that had spilled out. He was in for it now. Mortals weren’t supposed to see his kind do magic and now…now Molly knew. And he hadn’t even tried to convince her it was all a trick of the eye or anything like that

Mycroft would never let him hear the end of this.

His days of freedom were over.


	5. Chapter 5

He forgot all about the case, focusing on the problem at hand. Molly had seen him use magic. This wasn’t something he could lie about, explain away as he had the use of magic to tidy up her office. He’d had things floating in the air in time with the music coming from his violin! He should have been more careful, damn it. He should have warded his home or magically locked the place up tight to keep everyone out. And now he had a mess on his hands. He had broken one of the biggest rules of his kind and he was going to pay heftily for it as soon as Mycroft found out.

 _If_ his brother found out.

Sherlock knew the spell to suppress memories. He knew the spell to erase memories as well, but those were trickier and while he was skilled he didn’t want to take chances. He would grudgingly admit that Molly was useful and a good person, and should the spell backfire he didn’t want to…hurt her. Oh, all right, if he was truthful with himself he look on her as more that a colleague or an acquaintance. _Almost_ as a friend. And as he had so few in the world, he was not in the mood to hurt the few he did have. Suppressing the memory should be fine, and if it needed a more permanent fix later down the line…well, he would worry about it then.

He knew very well where she lived. He had known since shortly after she came to work at Barts; his brother had put a detail on her, which was unusual. He must have shown an interest in her that he hadn’t realized, so he followed her home, made note of the building, eventually made note of the specific apartment and how best to enter, and then filed all the information in her room in his mind palace. The fact she had a room was unnerving, but as she was an almost friend it made sense, he supposed.

He hoped that when this was all over, if she ever realized what he had done to her, that he had tampered with his mind, she would still _be_ an almost friend. Or a full blown friend, if their relationship had progressed to that point. He knew caring was a disadvantage, especially caring for a mortal, but there was something about the ones he chose to keep close, and Molly in particular, that comforted him. He needed her in his life and he would hate to lose her, especially if it was over a situation that he himself had put them in by his own foolish actions.

He took a cab to her building and then paid the driver and got out, going up to the door. It was not a heavily protected building, which worried him. If Moriarty ever decided to drag her into this game he was playing with him, the way he had tried to drag John in at the pool, Molly would be an easy target. He would have to talk to her about increasing her security, and perhaps he could do a few things magically to increase her protection that she would be unaware of. He still had not given her a gift for Christmas, after all, and while it might be unusual for him to give her something a talisman of some sort or a bracelet to keep on her person could afford her some protection. He’d just have to make sure it was pretty. He had the feeling she would like pretty.

He made his way up to her apartment and knocked on the door. He could be his usual arrogant arse of a self and pick the lock to prove to her just how flimsy her security was. It would go a long way towards making it easier when he tampered with her memories of the afternoon, to having her think he had picked her lock and been waiting at her home and they’d chatted about the case. But no, he would do the _normal_ thing and knock. When the door opened she, surprisingly, didn’t seemed shocked or alarmed to see him. “Sherlock. Come in,” she said, moving out of the way.

Frowning just slightly, he stepped inside and saw that in the ours since he had seen her she had stopped off at a library and gotten a stack of books on magic. They were stacked on the table in front of her sofa. He bent over and picked up the top one, thumbing through it before turning to her, closing the book with a snap. “Why?” he asked quietly after a moment. “Why aren’t you babbling incessantly about how could I be doing what I did and how is that possible and oh my Lord I’m a freak just like Donovan always said?”

“Because you aren’t the first person I’ve seen do that, I don’t think,” she said. She gestured to the sofa and he sat down, resting his elbows on his thighs. She sat next to him and brushed her hair behind her ears before clasping her hands together in her lap. “When I was young, maybe ten? There was a day I was talking a walk in the woods by my home in Bozeat and it’s all…fuzzy. I remember having lunch with my mum and dad and brother, and the next thing I remember it’s nearly dark and there’s torches in the trees and people calling my name and I’m in a pile of dead leaves. I have no memories at all, really, just fuzzy little bits. But there was a girl, and she was singing, and things were floating in the air.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened at that. There was no way he could suppress or erase her memories now, he realized. Not when someone had already done it to her once. It could damage her irreparably. He wouldn’t do that to her, especially when it sounded like they’d done a rather shoddy job by not giving her any actual memories in its place. Just simply cutting out all the memories was beginners’ work. He looked down after a moment. “I was going to do the same tonight, only do a better job. Change your memories, make you think I’d used your apartment as a bolt hole and we’d spent a few hours going over the autopsy results you had.”

“I see,” she said slowly. “But you aren’t going to do that now?”

“Someone did a shoddy job of changing your memories when you were young,” he said. “You saw someone do magic, which mortals aren’t allowed to see. They tried to keep you from remembering it. If I try to change your memories, I could do serious damage. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Ah,” she said with a nod. “So…you’re going to trust me not to tell anyone?”

“I trust you a great deal, Molly,” he said quietly. “I have for some time, even though I haven’t told you.”

She reached over and touched his face gently to get him to look at her, and when he did he saw that she was wearing a wide, warm smile. “Then I promise, Sherlock, your secret is safe with me. I can even do a magically binding promise, if you have one.”

He grinned just a bit at that before shaking his head. “Only between two of my kind,” he said. “But I do trust you’ll keep your word.”

“And I will, I swear,” she said. She removed her hand from his face. “Did you go over the autopsy report yet?”

He shook his head. “I was a bit more preoccupied with this.”

“Well, I can go over the results with you, over takeaway, if you want. I haven’t eaten yet and I’m starved. Does Thai sound good, or Persian?”

He thought for a moment. “Persian,” he said.

She gestured to her kitchen. “Go get a menu and then we can order, and then I’ll start going over the details. Then when we’re done with that, if you want, maybe you can tell me more about you and the magic stuff?”

“I suppose I could do that,” he said with a nod. He had expected things to go in a completely different direction tonight, he realized as he stood up and made his way into the kitchen. Perhaps this might not be so bad after all, her knowing. Perhaps it might not be so bad having someone to share his secret with. Only time would tell…


	6. Chapter 6

He was sure Molly had questions. He hadn’t thought to wonder if Mycroft had her home bugged when he had gone to visit her but as no one had come to pay him an early morning visit saying that his brother wanted to talk to him after the incidents, Sherlock figured it was safe enough that if they chose to talk about his powers at her home. He knew that her shift for the day at Barts was over at half past five and it would take her about forty minutes to get home so he let himself into her flat and waited.

It took her nearly an hour to get home, and she was carrying a sack of groceries in her arms when she opened her door. When she saw him she let out a squeak and dropped her groceries and he muttered a spell to stop the sack from hitting the floor. “Sherlock, what are you _doing_ here?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“I thought we could talk,” he said.

“Couldn’t you wait outside like a normal person?” she asked, reaching for the bag of groceries hanging in midair. She went to lift them up but they were immobile. Sherlock released the spell and suddenly she was able to move them and she stumbled slightly.

“Much more comfortable in here,” he said. He stood up from the chair he was sitting in and took the groceries from her, carrying them into the kitchen. “You weren’t expecting company, were you?”

“N...no,” she said.

“Excellent,” he replied. “Then we can have some privacy while we talk. I would have invited you to Baker Street but I’m fairly sure Mycroft has the place bugged. In fact, I’m not sure why he didn’t pounce on your statements about seeing things floating. Best not to act like you know I have magical powers at all or else he’ll realize I didn’t wipe your memories if he thinks I did.”

“Okay,” she said as he began taking her groceries out of the sack. “Are you going to put my things away for me?”

“If I’m to learn the layout of your kitchen, yes,” he said.

“And why would you need to do that?” she asked quizzically.

“I get the feeling I will be spending more time here in the future,” he said. “It’s not often that I’m around people who know the truth. Even among my own kind, I tend not to socialize. I am...different...among them.”

“How so?” she asked, moving to lean against the worktop.

“You know how I’m considered better than most amongst humans?” he said. She nodded. “I’m considered better than most amongst my own kind as well. I’m more powerful despite my young age. I can do more advanced spells, I can go longer without doing magic, and there are those that do not like that. There are also those that do not approve of the fact I do not place myself in a position of power among mortals. Most of my family has not, which makes us outcasts. My brother, obviously, is an exception.”

“Ah,” she said. She bit her lip slightly. “What, exactly, are you?”

“Part fae, I suppose is the simplest way to put it,” he said. “I’m a descendant of Merlin, so I’m a wizard, but I’m not human. Just human looking.”

“Merlin was actually real?” she asked, her eyes widening again.

He nodded. “Yes. I won’t live as long as he did. My bloodline has been weakened over the years. But I’ll live to be at least a hundred, if Moriarty doesn’t get any ideas to the contrary.”

“So you can be killed?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “It’s just harder.” He was almost tempted to tell her how he could be killed, but even though he trusted her, it was best to keep _some_ information to himself. He finished unpacking her groceries and began looking for how to put them away. “I have to do magic every day or I go into a state of withdrawal. Unlike my brothers, I can go about five days without doing magic before it seriously begins to affect me. The day I showed up at Barts looking like shite, as you said, I was on day five of not doing magic. I used magic to tidy up your office and was fine, though I slept for a full day afterward.”

“Ah,” she said. And then she got a confused look on her face. “Brothers? I thought Mycroft was your only brother.”

He cursed himself silently for his slip of the tongue. He hadn’t meant to bring up Sherrinford. “No, I have another brother. We don’t talk about him,” he said quietly.

“Why not?” she asked.

“We just don’t!” Sherlock said, raising his voice slightly, and Molly jumped. He looked at her and saw she looked frightened. He hadn’t meant to do that. “It’s a...sensitive topic.”

“Oh,” she said quietly, looking down at her feet.

He let go of the can he had been holding and put his hands on the worktop. Perhaps this had not been the best idea. Perhaps he had not been ready to tell her everything after all. Perhaps he really _wasn’t_ ready to share his secrets with a mortal. Perhaps he should take the risk and just wipe her memory. But then he felt a hand on his arm and looked over at her, seeing she was looking at him hesitantly. “Yes?” he asked.

“I would like to hear more,” she said. “Whatever you’re willing to tell me. We don’t have to talk about your other brother if you don’t want to. We don’t ever have to talk about him if you don’t want to. But...I do want to hear whatever you’re comfortable telling me about yourself.”

He looked at her hand again and then back at her face, and then nodded. “All right,” he said, and she squeezed his arm once and then let go.

“Let me show you where everything goes and then I can cook us supper and we can talk while I cook and we eat, alright?” she said, giving him a smile.

“Alright,” he said. This was a better plan than he’d had, he supposed, so if they went with that perhaps the evening would be salvageable after all.


	7. Chapter 7

By the time it dawned on him that he spent more time at Molly’s home than his own, he had realized he didn’t care. Oh, he _knew_ Mycroft had to question that, and he knew it shone an unnecessary spotlight on Molly, but he couldn’t help it. There was an unrivaled giddiness in the fact he could freely share his secret with someone and, for once, not have to take steps to clear their mind of whatever it was they had witnessed, or wait for his brother to swoop in and do it for him.

And he would admit, there were times he wondered just _why_ Mycroft hadn’t pulled him aside for a friendly little chat. He had to know by now, months after Molly’s surprise arrival at Baker Street while he was openly using magic, that he hadn’t cleared her memories of what she saw. Perhaps he had looked into her background and knew that wiping her mind had the chance of serious side effects and he couldn’t risk an asset being compromised. Sherlock wouldn’t put that past his calculating brother. Perhaps...perhaps Mycroft thought it was good for him. That he needed a friend who knew the truth to keep him in check, and who better than Molly Hooper, who had already proven her trustworthiness?

That was a much longer shot, he was sure.

But he relished this. He relished the delight of showing off, he supposed. He _did_ have an ego, no one could deny that, and in the comfort and safety of Molly’s home, he was able to show off to her, impress her, and even stretch his wings in a way he wasn’t able to around others or in the safety and security of his room at Baker Street. The curious sense of freedom made him giddy, almost.

But he was careful not to make the same mistake he had made that allowed Molly to catch a glimpse of his powers.

And Molly, in turn, never made mention of it anywhere where others could hear. Not even in the close confines of the path lab when it was just them. He had thought she might take the risk and he asked her about it, but she said she never knew when someone would walk in on them, or who might have ears in the walls. He had imagined she was referring to his all-seeing and all-listening older brother, but now, as he gripped the note in his hands, he couldn’t be quite sure.

Molly had gotten quite used to coming home and seeing Sherlock having made himself at home in her flat. It was quite spacious and well-appointed; she made a handsome salary as a pathologist of great repute. So when she came home and saw him sitting on the ground outside her door, back against the door and knees pulled up, she gave him a confused look. “Why didn’t you just let yourself in?” she asked quietly when she got to her door, moving to search for her keys.

“Because I’m not sure which ears have walls these days,” he said quietly.

She stilled and stared at him with wide eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I received this in my lab at Barts from a member of my homeless network, who seemed to be spellbound,” he said, passing her the note once he pulled it from the pocket of his Belstaff, where he had stuffed his hands to keep them warm. He lifted his arm up to give it to her and she took it, unfolding it.

“’I know your secret. Five days is impressive. Care to try longer?’” Molly said. She turned to look back down at Sherlock. “Is that about your limitation?”

“I can only assume so,” he said, planting his hands on either side of him and pushing himself up off the ground. “And it is not a limitation I would like to try and push, either. I have seen what pushing the limitations beyond their breaking point can do, and I have already done too much harm to myself in the past. I’m not in the mood to do so again.”

“So what are you going to do?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, looking over her shoulder at the note. “I couldn’t tell who bewitched the deliverer of the note. There was no trace of the caster on him.”

“Spells leave traces?” Molly asked, lowering her voice as she cast glances around them.

“From all casters except the most adept,” he said, leaning in more. “So whoever we’re dealing with, they’re powerful.” He was quiet for a moment. “You’re entangled in this, which I apologize for. If I had wiped your mind, you would not be in danger.”

“No, Sherlock,” she said, shaking her head. “It could have had such horrible repercussions. Whatever it is we need to do, we’ll do it together as much as we can, alright?”

“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice almost surprised.

She gave him a determined look and an emphatic nod. “Absolutely.”

“Very well, then. Go inside and pack some things. We’re going to have to go somewhere and get some help, whether he wants to help willingly or not.”

Molly looked over at him. “Your brother?”

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock said. 

“Wonderful,” she replied, resuming her search for her keys. He would take her there and see what needed to be done after that, but for right now, if anyone was in danger aside from him from this potential new threat, it would be Molly. And he was bound and determined to do anything to keep her safe...even if that meant having to grovel before Mycroft Holmes.


	8. Chapter 8

Their arrival at Mycroft’s doorstep seemed to have been anticipated. Mycroft’s favoured assistant was there, waiting to show them in. Sometimes he wondered if Mycroft had inherited their ancestor’s talent for precognition, one of the few talents he himself was not especially good at. Oh, he could induce prophetic dreams with the right potions, and read runes and images in reflective surfaces as well as most, but he had never cared much for the future, choosing to live more in the present. He wouldn’t be surprised if Mycroft had had special training in the art of seeing into the future and used it to his own advantage.

Mycroft sat in a chair in his study, his eyes shut...and then immediately sneezed when Molly got closer to him. Sherlock smirked at that. Mycroft’s allergy to cats was going to be amusing to deal with while he and Molly and Molly’s cat were all under the same roof. If Mycroft was going to protect them he knew that he would not turn down the request to protect the cat as well, despite his own personal discomfort. All life was sacred to them, for the most part. At least animal life was sacred, and cats were familiars. And it would be _quite_ apparent to Mycroft that in his time at Molly’s flat Toby had become quite keen on him. He and Molly may never share a romantic relationship, but they were bonded, and her cat was bonded to him as well. Where she went, the cat went, and Mycroft would just have to accept it because they were under his protection.

Although, really, he’d admittedly done a piss-poor job protecting them, and he knew Mycroft was going to lord that over him.

“Could you at least leave the cat outside the room? Anthea can take it to the room you’ll be staying in,” Mycroft said to Molly, trying to sound disinterested but his voice had an edge as though he was on the verge of another sneeze.

“Oh! Alright,’ Molly said, and Anthea came closer to collect the cat. Toby hissed but Anthea murmured something to the animal, and before they left the room loud purring could be heard from the carrier. Sherlock would be quite peeved if Anthea tried to poach his familiar. “Do we even need to inform you of the situation?” Sherlock said, gesturing to the remaining chair for Molly to sit as he moved behind it.

“Someone else is aware of your talents, and is playing a game with you,” Mycroft said, steepling his fingers together. “Fortunately, dear brother, I am aware of who.”

Sherlock was actually impressed by this. “Oh?”

“I monitor everyone associated with you, and I do mean everyone. We saw the sorcerer who bespelled the member of your network. He is an underling of your James Moriarty.”

Sherlock sat on the arm of Molly’s chair in some shock. “Is Moriarty one of us?”

“It’s unclear at the moment. I have a team of people looking into the matter as we speak, researching what we can of his lineage. There isn’t much, I’m afraid. Someone wants to keep his past shrouded in mystery.” Mycroft looked over his hands at Molly. “Ms. Hooper, we are aware that he went on a series of dates with you. Would you be amenable to reliving those dates and other interactions you had with him for us? It would be of the utmost help.”

Molly looked up at Sherlock. “It won’t make my mind a jumbled mess, will it?” she asked, her question more directed at Sherlock than Mycroft.

“No,” Sherlock said. “It will be like what I did when I found out your memories had been tampered with already, just simply viewing them.”

“Though we could straighten out the haphazard job done,” Mycroft said. Both Sherlock and Molly turned to him. “I am not one to trust mortals beyond the extent I need to. But as you may have noticed, my brother has spent much time in your company, using his powers in front of you and I have not come barging in to modify your memories or done any other actions to separate you. And as I have more power in the government than you might imagine, Ms. Hooper, there is much I could do that would not be a harm to you in any way. Point of fact, it could be a boon. But...I have not seen Sherlock like this since he was young, and he is being careful, as are you. I have decided you are as trustworthy as I had thought you to be upon our first encounter.”

Molly nodded. “Then I’ll let you view my memories.”

“Excellent. When my assistant comes back, get settled in your room and then she can do the necessary spell work there, where you are comfortable. She is quite skilled at seeing people’s thoughts and extracting necessary information from them.”

“Alright.” Molly looked over at Sherlock for a moment, biting her lip, and then back at Mycroft. “What about my post?”

“For the time being, I think it’s best if you go on a sabbatical. I’ll have your superiors suggest that it’s time for you to work on a paper or a lecture, and we’ll ensure you get due credit for your work. Sherlock can assist you. It should keep him moderately out of trouble. Anything you should require, I can provide.” Mycroft stood. “Even dead bodies, though I ask you take those to the basement. I usually do the messy spells down there. Easier clean-up.” He headed towards the door. “Dinner is at six. I expect you both to join me, provided Anthea is done with you, Ms. Hooper.”

Sherlock watched him leave, and then turned to Molly. “That didn’t go _quite_ the way I expected it to,” he admitted.

“But it went well?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yes. It went quite well.” He knew that Molly, at least, would be safe within these walls. But if Mycroft thought he wasn’t going to assist with tracking down Moriarty and dealing with whatever trouble the man was wanting to deal out, then his brother had another thing coming.


	9. Chapter 9

He spent the night formulating his plan of how to go after James Moriarty. The most useful part of being in his brother’s home was that he had access to his brother’s spell-working materials and tomes, and there was no reason to hide what he was doing. Well, there was _some_ reason, as he knew his brother would resent his interference in whatever plans he had, but there were things he knew about Moriarty from their one brief personal encounter that Mycroft could not fathom. As much as they butted heads, Mycroft was still his brother, and as this was _his_ mess, it would be best if his brother stayed out of it. And what a mess it was.

His talent for staying awake with little sleep came in handy that evening as he had again through familiar books to find the spells to help him track magicks and follow trails. That would be most of what he would do, utilizing his network to go to where the seedy underside of the city dwelt, and then go to the darker side where the Unspeakables were. They would most likely be the ones Moriarty would choose from if he was hiring magic practitioners in the city, the ones who had no morals and no cares who their magicks were used on or in what way, so long as they got rewarded for their troubles.

He despised all people like that, as evidenced by his assisting Scotland Yard, but the Unspeakables particularly rankled his hide. Even in his utmost desperation for the highest high that drugs couldn’t give him never had he sunk to speaking to them. No matter what could be said about him he had a moral line he would not cross, and doing magicks the way the Unspeakables did and for the prices they charged...that was his line when it came to his powers. If he could, he would wipe them off the face of the earth, the whole lot of them. Maybe in his old age when crime fighting became wearisome, if his powers were still formidable, when he was all alone and his friends had died off.

He went to the cave-like kitchen and saw Molly staring into the refrigerator. “If you’re looking for food I doubt you’ll find any,” Sherlock said, going to the expensive espresso machine his brother had. His one addictive human vice would be coffee, he mused. But at least that meant it would be premium coffee and even he couldn’t make too much of a mess of it.

“Well, then I suppose I’ll have to go out and get something for us all. I can’t live simply on air,” she said, giving him a smile. It made him feel good to see her smile, even in this situation. “Will you come with me?”

“I...can’t,” he said. “I have errands to run.”

She gave him a look. “Errands you don’t want your brother to know about?” she asked, her eyebrow slightly arched.

“Oh, I’m fairly sure he already does. Either he has precognition or he’ll realize the books of his I read or his assistant will trail me on CCTV. Either way, by the end of the day he’ll be fully aware of what my plans entailed. But I _need_ to be a part of this. I can’t be trapped in this fortress.”

“But I can,” she said, her voice tight.

He looked down. “The places I’m going are dangerous for mortals. I don’t want you to get hurt. If you got hurt because of me, I don’t think I could bear it. You’re too important to me.”

A moment later he felt her hand on his cheek. “But you can’t go alone, Sherlock. You’re strong, I can tell you are, but you...” She caressed his cheek. “You’re one of the people I care the most about. If something happened to _you_ and I couldn’t know I would be beside myself with worry.”

He gave her a small smile. That was the Molly he had come to know, the woman who believed in him and his strength and believed the best of him but knew he was still just a man, even though he was more than one. In some ways, she was a far better friend than John simply because she knew the whole truth and understood it all so well. He nodded and then clasped her hand. After a moment a rose began to form, starting as a rosebud and then blooming just a bit. He could have made it any color at all but he chose a soft yellow, the color of friendship. “Clip that and find a way to wear it, and we’ll be off. It will keep you safe from most magicks, even mine.”

She nodded, curling her hand around the stem. “Thank you, Sherlock,” she said before turning to leave the room. He wondered if this was the best idea, but to be honest, he felt better not going out alone. He just hoped he could keep her safe.


	10. Chapter 10

The pub where they ended up after hours of reaching out to contacts, both of the magical and non-magical variety, was not exactly the most pleasant looking of places. It was dark and dingy, the type of place you would expect the degenerates of the race Sherlock came from to hide themselves. He knew there were other things there, creatures that did not pass for human in any way, shape or form, and he had warned Molly about that before they entered, but she seemed to keep a cool, confident gaze as they made their way up to the bar. Her gaze never lingered, never seemed to single anyone out, and never looked as though anything surprised her. She was quite the consummate actress when she needed to be, apparently. He tucked that bit of information away for future reference.

When they got to the bar he took an amulet out of his pocket and set it on the bar top, sliding it a bit forward to make sure it got the attention of the bartender. The name of Merlin didn’t do much at times, but one thing it _did_ do was tell people that he came from one of the oldest and most powerful wizard families on Earth, and if he wanted to tear this bar asunder he could, so helping him was the best chance of keeping it in one piece. Most of the family wore the symbol on some other piece of jewelry and kept it in the open at all times; he preferred to keep it a surprise and only produce his amulet as needed. “I need answers,” he said quietly.

He could see the bartender begin to sweat. He wasn’t fully human, just human passing. Probably Unseleigh, and lower in the court. The elf could see the amulet was made of cold iron and could tell from the look in Sherlock’s eye that was serious about pressing it against skin. Life may be sacred but he was not above intimidation to get results, though to be fair, he _did_ try not to do irreparable harm, even to those who probably deserved it. But this player was just a pawn and there was no need to mark him.

“I don’t know nothing,” the bartender said, his hands shaking as he wiped a glass. “But there’s a neutral here. Cast-out. She can talk to you. In the back room.”

Sherlock inched the amulet closer to the elf’s arm on the counter. “Are you lying to me?”

“I swear!” he said, his voice almost like a yelp. “Said she was waiting here for a guy like you. Maybe you. Greek woman.”

“An Oracle,” Sherlock said, sliding the amulet back and putting it in the pocket of his Belstaff. He looked at the bartender. “What’s your payment?”

“Quid,” the elf said, relaxing. 

Sherlock put twenty quid on the bar top and started to slide it towards him, and then stopped as a prickly awareness settled at the base of his neck. This happened sometimes, a sixth sense for impending trouble. It might be his own type of precognition, the reason he usually managed to get the best in schoolyard fights and boxing matches with mortals growing up and wizard duels with his own kind. Quickly he added more bills and slid them forward. “Take it and leave. Now. Don’t look back.”

The bartender’s eyes widened and he nodded, taking the money and setting the glass on the counter before grabbing a bag from behind the counter and slinging it onto his back. Sherlock watched him walk away and then turned to Molly. “There’s going to be trouble.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.” He murmured the spell that would track down a person. Now that he knew there was an Oracle there, and most likely the Oracle was waiting for him, he had a target. He waited for the spell to activate and then reached for Molly’s rose, pinned to her dress, and plucked a petal from it. “Do you see the line on the floor?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Follow it to the woman in whatever room it leads to. Stay there with her no matter what you hear. She’ll keep you safe.” Molly nodded and casually began to head towards the direction of the glowing path. He knew he had weakened the protection the rose gave her, but he trusted that the Oracle would know she was coming. When he saw someone hooded in a black robe begin to follow her, though, he pressed his hands together and pulled them up, a small electrically charged orb forming in his hands, and sent it directly at the hooded figure. It struck him just as Molly disappeared behind a set of doors, and the hooded figure turned as his robe caught on fire, sending lightning in Sherlock’s general direction and hitting the man beside him.

The bar fight was on.

He hadn’t _quite_ planned it like this, but he kept his defenses up while keeping an eye on the doors Molly had gone through, discretely sending electric orbs towards anyone headed in that direction to escape. Glasses shattered, tables were overthrown, chairs were broken, and yet for all intents and purposes it seemed as though it was a regular bar fight between humans with the addition of wildly varying magical powers.

When there seemed to be an influx of creatures and wizards heading towards the door, Sherlock made a bigger orb in his hands, one that was not electrically charged. He had never attempted this spell before in a room this large or on so many different types of creatures, so he hoped it worked. When it was large enough, he sent the blindingly bright orb to the center of the room, catching everyone’s attention, then said the release word and the light zapped out, taking all the light in the room with it for a moment before snapping it back at everyone and sending them unconscious to the floor. He was _fairly_ sure he hadn’t killed anyone, and he took a moment to walk around to check that everyone was out cold before he headed towards the back rooms. He’d have to file that particular spell away as a success.

He entered a shabby room with a broken door and for a moment he panicked until he saw Molly holding a steel pipe and a Minotaur standing nearby looking on approvingly, cradling its arm. “Your friend is quite feisty,” the Minotaur said. “And very handy with a steel pipe.”

“Well, I always did have a good tennis game. My overhand is especially good,” Molly said.

“What happened?” Sherlock asked before spotting a man whimpering in the corner.

“He was in the loo when your ruckus started,” Molly said. “Thought he’d take a chance at getting us, and got a good crack at Milton, so I grabbed the pipe and took a swing. Broke his arm and almost cracked his head open, too, for good measure.”

“Keep her away from me!” the man said, his eyes wide with fear. “She’s a bloody harpy!”

“Trust me, the harpies are kinder,” the Minotaur said, hauling himself up to full height. He stood at least head and shoulders above Sherlock. “If you’re ready, Mr. Holmes, we can leave now.”

“Where’s the Oracle?” he asked as the Minotaur took the man up by the front of his shirt with his good hand.

“Sleeping. It’s what toddlers do,” the Minotaur said. “I believe you know teleportation spells?”

Sherlock nodded. “I do.”

“Then take us to your brothers home. We must have words.” He then turned to the man cowering in his hands, who had soiled himself. “And this man included. My mistress knew he would come. I believe he is responsible for a message being sent to you.”

Sherlock studied the man. He seemed short and overly plump and had greasy hair and an acne breakout, not at all looking like a powerful wizard who could conceal his spell-work so brilliantly. “Alright,” he said.

“Would you please carry her, Ms. Hooper?” the Minotaur asked.

Molly nodded, going to the perfectly made bed that Sherlock had only glimpsed behind the Minotaur and picking up a little girl with olive skin and black hair. She held her close and looked over at Sherlock. “Ready when you are, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded and then began to cast the spell. It was easier if he had physical contact with the others he as teleporting, but he could do it without. He knew his brother’s house was warded, but the backyard had an area for magical visitors to arrive and he set them there. He knew they would have to wait for Mycroft’s in home security spells to be released before they could enter his home, but that would give him time to get some answers.

He hoped.


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft made them wait for three hours. 

Sherlock almost wished that Molly had brought along the steel pipe for the amount of time the unnamed man complained about his mistreatment. And that was all he was going to do, apparently; he hadn’t tried once to find a way out of his situation, to cast any spells to heal himself or break the security wards. He simply complained in a high, shrill voice until Sherlock decided to mute him before he strangled him. He was fairly sure his brother would look down on blood in the garden more than he would a magically muted informant.

Eventually Anthea came out with a pair of magicked handcuffs that Sherlock knew would keep the man from being able to perform any spells, verbal or nonverbal. Those were a creation of his mothers, something she was quite proud of and had passed around the spell for to a few select wizards in law enforcement. They might be an old and proud wizarding family who liked to keep secrets but that gave them a duty to keep people safe, their parents had espoused. Mycroft had chosen to do so through going into government, his parents had done so through tinkering with spells and teaching them to others, and he had become a consulting detective. He was sure that Sherrinford might have done something similar if fate had been kinder to him.

He didn’t think the man needed the handcuffs, though, as pieces of information from the three hours trapped together began to piece together in his mind. The man seemed, quite frankly, dumb as an ox. The perfect type of person to be blank slated and used as a vessel for a spell to be cast through. It was a hard spell to do and it made him more inclined to think that James Moriarty had magical talent after all, and that he was the one truly pulling the strings. It wouldn’t surprise him, considering that he had been on Moriarty’s radar since at _least_ the Carl Powers case. If Moriarty knew Sherlock had magical powers because he himself had some, that could explain why he had been singled out for Moriarty’s game and why it was taking the tone it did.

And that, in turn, made it infinitely more dangerous.

When they were brought before Mycroft he went to the man and magicked the handcuffs off. Mycroft looked at him with wide eyes. “Sherlock!” he said, his voice aghast.

“I doubt there’s any need for them,” Sherlock said, gesturing for Anthea to come forward. “If you probe into his thoughts, I doubt you’ll find much there.”

Anthea gave him a curious look, and then gently set her fingers to the side of his head and began the process of probing the man’s mind. When she was done, she nodded towards Sherlock before turning to Mycroft. “Your brother is right. His memory was absolutely wiped before his task of giving the note to the member of Sherlock’s homeless network. He doesn’t have any clue who he is, just that he had to stay at that bar and if he saw a woman who looked like Ms. Hooper go to the back room to stop her. And it’s spotless magic. There isn’t a trace of the caster at all.”

Mycroft scowled. “See what you can do to fix the damage,” he said. Anthea nodded and led the man away.

Before Mycroft could say anything else, Sherlock turned to the Minotaur. “I thought you said the man could answer my questions,” he said in a slightly accusing tone.

“He did, did he not?” a woman’s voice was heard coming from Molly’s arms. The Oracle stirred and Molly sat her in the chair the man had been sitting in. Her voice had a choral overtone, as though there were many woman speaking when she spoke, though there was one woman with a lyrical voice speaking more pronouncely. It was definitely the voice of an adult, someone much older than the body through which it was coming. “You realized the man was a vessel through which the magic was done, so you know the caster is none other than your nemesis.”

“Moriarty,” Sherlock said quietly.

The Oracle nodded. “He has great power on his side, dark power. He has sold his soul many times over for his power, piece by piece, to many nameless beings. His power is unlike yours, in that it is not inherited. He is, in some ways, stronger than you. But do not be afeared; you have hidden wells of strength. Never forget the deep shadows, Sherlock Holmes, and never forget the moon’s light. If you remember that, victory shall be yours.” And then she shifted so she was laying down on the seat, shut her eyes again, and within moments was asleep.

“Prophecies wear her out, I’m afraid,” the Minotaur. said, moving to the chair and picking up the Oracle, cradling her gently. “But our task is done, and we may continue our journey now.”

“Where will you go?” Molly asked.

“Mr. Holmes is not the only warrior whose prophecy needs to be told,” the Minotaur. said. “There is much evil in the world, and many who fight it in their ways.” The Minotaur. nodded at them and then there was a flash of light and the Minotaur. and the Oracle were gone.

Mycroft shook his head. “I should have known my magical security would be no match for ancient Greek magic,” he muttered. Then he looked over at Sherlock. “We still have no idea where Moriarty is, Sherlock. Before you can fight him, we need to find him.”

“I have the feeling he’ll make himself known soon enough,” Sherlock said. “He wouldn’t have sent the note otherwise. He wanted me to go longer than five days without using magic. He wouldn’t have taunted me about pushing my limits otherwise. I need to figure out why.” Sherlock turned to Molly. “I suppose I’m used to practicing with you nearby. Will you join me as I study? I need to learn as much as I can.”

Molly nodded. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll help you prepare however I can.”

“My tomes are all available to you,” Mycroft said. “But...be careful, brother dear.”

Sherlock nodded, choosing not to reply. Instead, he turned and left the room, Molly following after him. Now that he knew Moriarty was as powerful as he was or more, and his powers were different, he had to try and guess as to what he might expect. Anything could be possible, he wagered, so he had to prepare for anything.


	12. Chapter 12

He was careful not to push himself too close to his physical limits, getting some sleep, but he stayed up as much as he could to study the books he hadn’t seen as a child, or had never bothered to read because they had been of no interest to him. He had always been the type to want to test his powers on his own, learn from experimentation rather than books, and it had allowed him to learn how he worked better than most. But in these books was wisdom of ages, the accumulated wisdom of the Old Religion and even, in some, the wisdom of others. He had not had much interaction with the magic of other cultures, but perhaps there were things that could be learned from them. If there was, he hoped to learn what he could from the words in the books and what practice he could do on his own.

It was strange knowing that he had a nemesis with powers he had no idea about. Whatever it was Moriarty was capable of, he had to be wary. This was a man who could wipe memories of entire lives and make men _tabulae rasae_ if he so chose. Sherlock had seen how meddling with memories improperly could go wrong for someone like Molly, who still remembered it but thought it was a dream. She was one of the lucky ones. He didn’t want to see worse.

He didn’t want to _be_ worse. 

Nor did he want Molly to fall victim to Moriarty. Moriarty had a hold on her, having used her in the past, and he wanted to sever that bond as much as possible. As he learned new spells and perfected the magic he made necessary modifications and cast them on Molly, warding her to anything he could imagine Moriarty would do. He was fairly confident he had protected them both from whatever he could throw at them by the end of a fortnight.

His confidence, however, was misplaced.

Even the most well-protected fortress can be breached, and so it was with Mycroft’s home. The attack was timed so that the physical security was at it’s weakest and Mycroft and his PA were at the office. Sherlock knew the agents set to guard him and Molly were killed by magical means almost immediately, and he and Molly were frozen before he could say or even think one word of protection or anything else spell wise to attack those coming to take them.

He had no idea how much later it was when he awoke in the dark cell with Molly laying nearby, shivering. There were no comforts in the cell, no bed for them, no blankets. He took off his suit jacket and draped it over her, hoping it helped in some measure.

“Chivalry. An age-old custom from days gone by. Strange to see _you_ practising it, Sherlock.”

Moriarty’s voice seemed to come from the shadows cast by the small window high above him, the only source of light in the cell. It would appear to be moonlight casting the glow now, which meant at the very least that it had been hours since they were taken. “Moriarty,” he said, his voice tight.

“Come now. We’re on better terms than that. Jim. I insist.” The man stepped through into the light, the beams dancing on his face and making his cold smile seem even colder. “I do apologize for the lack of comfort. Well, not really, but I didn’t want anything you could use to your advantage. You are frightfully clever. Not that you’ll have much. This room is warded against magic from the Old Religion. And most other forms of magic, too. So good luck practiscing to keep your strength.” He looked down at his watch. “It’s been about fifteen hours. Wonder what will happen in the next few days?”

“Bastard,” Sherlock heard Molly mutter from nearby.

“No, I know full well who my father was, dear Molly,” Moriarty said. “ _He_ was a bastard, though. My first sacrifice for my powers. Got me a great bargain in the process.” He grinned more, then nodded. “I’ll leave you here for a bit. Then maybe you’ll be inclined to join me for supper.”

“When Hell freezes over,” Molly said.

“Well. We’ll just see how long you can survive without food and water in the cold, I think,” Moriarty said, the grin snapping off his face in an instant. He slinked back into the shadows and Sherlock knew he was gone.

“Don’t antagonize him,” Sherlock said, moving to pull Molly closer. Cold had never bothered him much, but he knew it was getting to her when he touched her arm and felt goosebumps under her fingers. “It may be the only way you survive.”

“What about you?” she asked, letting him pull her close to share warmth.

“I will figure something out,” he said. “I always do.”

“I hope you do,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder as he wrapped his suit jacket around them. He would make sure they both got out of this situation alive. How, he wasn’t sure, but he would. He damn well would.


	13. Chapter 13

Moriarty was right that the cell was blocking Sherlock from doing magic, but it didn’t seem to block the fact that there was someone with old magic in it. At first light the next morning he found that a bag of crisps had been pushed through the bars and had fallen onto the floor of the cell along with a juice packet. It wasn’t much, but it was something for Molly. He coaxed her awake and watched her sip the juice slowly and nibble on the crisps as though she would not get anything else. When she was done he took the rubbish and set it on the sill of the open bars and watched as two ravens came to collect it. He had the feeling there would be more gifts of food for Molly to come to make sure she didn’t starve.

He himself could go days without food and water, a unique trait among his kind. But he knew the longer he pushed himself without doing magic, the worse off he would be both physically and mentally; if Moriarty had plans for him, he would be extremely weak, if not completely comatose, within four more days, if not sooner. He needed to make plans of some sort to work around that.

“Have you thought about the prophecy?” Molly asked when she settled against him again. The bit of sunlight streaming into the cell did nothing to warm the room, which made him think the temperature was being magically controlled. Molly still felt cold, but he was trying his best to keep her warm, pulling her into his lap and covering her almost completely with the suit jacket. He was surprised at how small and fragile she truly was, but how strong she was being as well.

“I’m not to forget the deep shadows, and I’m not to waste the moon’s light,” he murmured, as quietly as possible in case Moriarty was able to listen in. He wouldn’t put it past the man to eavesdrop on their conversations. He gazed at the dark shadows around them and thought for a moment. “I need to set you back on the ground and explore a bit.”

Molly nodded. “Alright.”

He gently eased her off his lap, careful to keep her as covered in his jacket as possible, and then began to walk around the deep shadows in the cell, feeling with all his senses, the five physical as well as his magical ones. When he got back to Molly he realized his thoughts had been right: there was no door, physical or magical, in this cell. Moriarty used shadow-walking to move about. He carefully sat back down and pulled Molly back against him. “Moriarty is a Shadow-walker,” he said. “That’s the only way he could get in and out of here.”

“Can you do that?” she asked, her voice tinged with hope.

He shook his head. “I can’t,” he said, and she sagged against him. “It’s an Egyptian art, a specialty among cat worshipers.” But he did smile against her forehead. “But although he might be muting my magic, hopefully we will have a visitor shortly.”

“Oh?” Molly asked.

“When the ravens collected the rubbish, I asked them to find Toby. Toby can Shadow-walk. All cats can. And if Mycroft can get over his allergy long enough, Toby can lead him here and get him to our cell. We stand a chance of rescue soon enough.”

“Hopefully before Moriarty does anything to seriously damage us,” Molly said, shifting to get more comfortable underneath the suit jacket.

“Yes,” he said, turning his eyes to the barred window as he felt Molly’s eyes flutter closed against his throat. It was a waiting game now, to see who fell to harm first, who made the next move. He simply hoped time was on his side this once.


	14. Chapter 14

_Sherlock,_ he heard a soft voice call out, rousing him from the dozing he was doing. If he couldn’t do magic there was no use in staying awake; he could save some strength by sleeping as much as possible, or at least dozing. _The flying ones said my mistress needs me._

He looked at the window first, but then realized the sound had come from the shadows. Soon a small figure emerged and he saw Toby in the pale sunlight. Toby had never spoken to him before in any shape or form, though they had seemed to be bonded, so this was a new thing. Perhaps Molly’s well being was something that would cause them to bond closer. He shifted slightly, Molly still curled up on his lap. He ached from barely moving and having the weight of her on him, but she seemed comfortable and at least a little warm. _A bad man has kept us prisoner. No food, no heat. I need to make sure your mistress is fed and I need my litter mate to save us,_ he called back softly, not sure if Moriarty was listening.

Toby didn’t reply but came forward and went up to Molly, pawing at her chest slightly and then breathing into her mouth. A thin silver mist went towards Molly’s mouth, and Sherlock’s eyes widened. Perhaps for Moriarty to be able to Shadow-walk, this ancient animal magic had to be allowed. He instantly felt Molly warm more in his ears, and even in the dim light of the cell he could see her complexion improve. She didn’t wake up, but she snuggled against him more when Toby was done. _I will return_ , Toby said, nuzzling Molly quickly before hopping off of her and slinking back towards the shadows.

Not too long afterward, Molly pushed the suit jacket down a bit. “Is the bastard being nice?” she murmured.

“You had a visitor,” Sherlock said. “Your cat loves you very much and used ancient magic to raise your body temperature. I don’t know how long it will last, but it’s something.”

“You should but your jacket on,” she said.

“I’ll just keep you close,” he replied.

She nodded and snuggled next to him. “How long has it been now?” she asked.

“We’re going into the evening of the second day,” he replied. “The sun is setting now.”

“So...three more days,” she said quietly. “And Moriarty hasn’t come back.”

“No, but the ravens did,” he said. He shifted again to reach for the food he had hidden in case Moriarty had come by. “Crisps, a protein bar, two juice packets...there were more ravens this time.”

“Won’t they bring attention to us?”

“I gather from the chatter I hear there are many of them around. A few others have started to gather human food and they’re storing it. You may get fed more often.” He handed her the food and she once again ate slowly, though he knew she had to be ravenous. He himself was starting to feel the effects of hunger. She must have noticed because she passed back the protein bar and one of the juice packets and glared when he shook his head. “Molly...”

“If you have to fight him, you need all the strength you can get. I’ll...be fine.”

He shook his head and took the opened bag of crisps and passed her the protein bar. “Humour me,” he replied.

She sighed and nodded, peeling the wrapper off. “What...what happened to your other brother?” she asked. “Before all of this, I overheard Mycroft say he pushed himself too long.”

Sherlock took one of the crisps out of the bag. “When we were young, it was very obvious from a young age I was special. Mycroft was older than me but Sherrinford was older than him. More had been expected of Sherrinford than either of us, and he felt that burden quite heavily.” He ate the crisp but didn’t get another. “He wanted to learn a spell, one of the old spells that no one other than Merlin had attempted. But to do it, you had to go a week without practicing magic. Hence why Merlin was the only one who had been able to do it; unlike the rest of us, he could go very long times without doing magic, should he need to.”

Molly reached over for his hand, gripping it. “What happened?”

“We had an attic, where the three of us would practice our magic. Sherrinford locked himself up there. I got impatient and broke the door down five days after he started and he was comatose,” Sherlock said quietly. “But the spell had already begun to take effect. Two days later, when he was in a hospice for our kind, the build-up of magical power...exploded. It killed everyone in the building except Sherrinford. He woke up surrounded by green fire and corpses and it almost drove him mad.”

“I am so sorry,” she said, ignoring her food and wrapping her arms around him. After a moment he held her back. He had never told the story to anyone, because no one in his family would admit that Sherrinford had killed over 60 people, even if it was accidental. They would rather pretend he had never existed. And he had done the same. And part of him had wondered if Moriarty got away with his twisted game, if they would do the same for him.

But now, knowing Molly was here and he had a _reason_ to win this game, he would do whatever it took to make sure they both got out of this situation alive and healthy and whole.

Or...at least that Molly did.


	15. Chapter 15

Another day passed with more gifts from the ravens. He was surprised there was not another visit from Toby, but Molly’s body temperature had stayed consistently warm, more or less, and he just assumed that either Toby was trying to find someone to communicate with or Mycroft was trying to figure out how to free them. With the knowledge he had from the Oracle and the fact that Moriarty had been able to take out a team of some of the most skilled of their kind as if it were nothing, he would be considering any rescue plans carefully.

In the meantime, all he could do was wait with Molly and see if there were any gaps in their cell that he could use to weaken the barriers being used to keep him from doing magic.

Since Molly was no longer so deathly cold, he had taken the opportunity to cover every inch of the cell he could. Even though he was tall he could not view the ceiling, that rankled him. He had the feeling that was one of the reasons that they had not been given a cot in the cell: the wards were not etched all around the cell but were instead above them, all over the ceiling. If he could just find a way to see them, or to interfere with even one single bit of the magic, then he _might_ succeed in being able to thwart Moriarty’s plans to make him weak.

Just as the sun hit midday an idea hit him. “Never waste the moon’s light,” he murmured to himself before moving towards the window. He had no idea if the ravens would know he was there; he couldn’t look out, just place items on the sill, but he need a favour from the birds. The fact that he couldn’t touch the window didn’t mean he couldn’t use the light coming in through it…

...so long as he had a mirror.

It seemed the ravens could sense him and not just see the rubbish on the windowsill because soon he heard the soft flutter of wings above him. “I need a small mirror,” he said, hoping the understood the human language. “And I need it before the moon hits the window and the light enters the cell. Can you get that for me?” There was a rustling of feathers in response and then silence. Better than a squawk, he supposed; at least if Moriarty was listening he might think him daft or the birds ignoring him.

Which led him to wonder how much surveillance they were under. By now Moriarty had to realize the ravens were gifting them with food and drink, because Molly was not ill from hunger and dehydration. He should also have realized Molly was no longer shivering and huddled under his suit jacket. The fact he had not come to check on them had initially made Sherlock think they were well supervised but now he wondered. That bit of hubris might be Moriarty’s downfall, unless the only kind of observation they were under was magical.

That would make messing with any wards that had been set much harder.

He went back to Molly and dozed until he heard a small _clink_ on the window’s sill some time later. Unlike the gifts of food and drink, whatever was set down was not pushed down onto the cell floor, so Sherlock had to reach for it with his fingertips. He felt smooth metal in a ridged pattern under his fingertips and carefully edged it off, and soon was holding a women’s compact mirror. When he opened it up he saw it was a double mirror, which made him even more sure that these ravens were magical birds. He would have two magnifications to use to project the moonlight up onto the ceiling and possibly, hopefully, find something out and maybe do something to get his own magic back.

It wasn’t dark yet and so he went back over to Molly. Even with the gifts of food and drink it wasn’t full meals and it wasn’t really enough for both of them, and she kept insisting on giving him part of the gifts. That left her weak and sleeping most of the time, and he kept her close when she was asleep. He would keep her safe no matter what, even if it cost him his own life. He had decided that early on in their captivity. The world needed her more than it needed him, really, even though she might disagree.

They were friends now, of that he could no longer have any doubt. But it went beyond the friendship he had with anyone else, even John. She was, in the ways that counted, the one that mattered most. If he could tell her that, he would. She deserved to know. But she needed to rest, to keep her energy, and keeping her close put him at ease. While he waited for the sun to set and the moon to rise, he held her on his lap, brushing back her hair and trying to somehow let her know he cared.

She had woken up once the moon had risen and he had shown her the compact but not explained what he was going to do, partly because he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. Prophecies were either usually very detailed or very much a riddle, and he had been unfortunate enough to get one of the riddles. The shadows part had been explained by being able to get help from Toby via Shadow-walking, but the moonlight part...that was trickier.

Once the moonlight was in the cell, he put the mirror in its path and focused the reflection of its light up to the ceiling. He had been using the weaker end and saw nothing, but at one point the compact flattened and both parts were in the moonlight, and suddenly he heard Molly’s sharp intake of breath. “Sherlock!” she said, and he saw she was pointing to the ceiling.

She had been able to see wisps of his magic before, but for her to see even a portion of what he was seeing must have meant there was an astounding amount of glyphs in the room. Almost every inch of stone above them would have to have magic scribbled onto it. The question became, was it etched in magically or was it done more mundanely?

And before he could even think more there seemed to be a sharp chittering of birdsong outside the window and suddenly there were birds all around the ceiling, flying against it, touching every inch of stone above them. Occasionally feathers dropped on their heads, but Sherlock slowly felt the wards that were binding him from using magic begin to weaken as the various birds flew around the cell. Apparently the glyphs were all written on and not magically etched onto the stone.

Moriarty was rather more of an overconfident idiot than Sherlock had thought.

Eventually all of the birds flew out the window and Sherlock decided to practice his telekinesis. He looked at the compact still in his hands and willed for it to move. It lifted up a few inches, which was not as good as usual, but would do for now. He gathered that not all the wards were lifted, but enough were for him to practice and maintain his strength. As long as he was careful, when Moriarty came to pay them a visit again, he would be in for a _nasty_ surprise.


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock knew that there was some magic that was virtually imperceptible to most other magic users, at least for his kind and those who were similar to him, and he held out hope that it would be true to Moriarty’s types of magic too. At the very least, he hoped the removal of some of the wards would go unnoticed at least long enough for him to regain a portion of his strength. The very first thing he did was to create a rose to keep Molly safe. He poured as much of his energy as he could spare into the peach rose, the colour he knew was her favourite, but all he could manage was a simple rosebud. It would work but it would have been more powerful if it had bloomed.

He would have to make sure Moriarty did not view Molly as bait or a prize or anything at all, even if it cost him his own life. At this point, it was a waiting game to see who could last the longest and whether Mycroft could mount a rescue attempt in time.

He practiced his magic while Molly dozed against him, and he let himself borrow some of her strength. It wouldn’t hurt her in any way or steal any of the warmth Toby had given her, but it would bolster him a bit more if Moriarty made his move sooner than anticipated. The residue from the spell-work done on her as a child and the work Anthea had done and the gift from Toby could be siphoned off and would help him without doing anything to hurt her in any way. It would not undo any of the corrections done to the mess done to her so long ago, and while he knew he should ask, there simply wasn’t time. He knew the work of the birds would be found out, and soon, if it wasn’t known already. Moriarty was a man who changed plans on a whim; for all he knew, now Moriarty could want him to regain a portion of his strength so he could claim a “fair” fight, though it would be a complete and utter lie.

Nothing Moriarty ever did was fair.

But he could prepare in all the ways given to him.

He’d expected a visit from Moriarty at daybreak but there was nothing, and he felt himself on edge. Another gift from the ravens appeared, and he took the bag of crisps for himself and left the protein bar and the packets of juice for Molly. Few more hours ticked by and there was another gift, and then he began to realize something was wrong. Molly was still asleep.

He went to check on her with as much of his other sense as he could as realized there was more to her sleep than was normal. _Bastard,_ he thought to himself. He could hear Moriarty’s gloating chuckle ring around the cell but he ignored it as best he could, beginning the spell-work to reverse the spell. Whatever his plan was, Sherlock was going to make sure he failed.

When he was done, Molly awoke with a start. He hadn’t had time to bring her out of it gently, much as he would have liked to, and he cursed himself for not making the rose bloom. It would have protected her better. But he could do it now. Moriarty’s laugh was still echoing against the walls, so he gathered the food for her and helped her into the corner farthest from the one where Moriarty had Shadow-walked the first time. “I’ll shield you,” he said. “Eat, drink, get your strength. Whatever you see, whatever happens, don’t move. Don’t get involved. When Mycroft comes, he’ll be able to see you. You’ll be safe.”

“If you think I’m going to let you sacrifice yourself...” Molly said, giving him a hard stare.

“The world needs you, Molly. The world can do without Moriarty or I.” He paused and then leaned over and embraced her tightly before kissing her cheek. “You are the one that matters, Molly. You’ve always counted, and you always will.” Then he pulled away and cast the spell as the walls of the cell began to shake.

He braced the defensive spells he had cast earlier with a bit more power. He was adept enough to balance multiple spells at once, a skill that most wizards only were able to do with much practice but was something that had come easily. He had the feeling it would be something that came easily to Moriarty as well, so he couldn’t let his guard down. His primary concern was to keep the spell on Molly up at all times, keep himself as safe as possible and bring the bastard down while buying enough time as he could for reinforcements. He had hope that the spell keeping Molly shielded would hold; he’d tied them into the remaining wards on the ceiling so he needed to do little to power it, but he still needed to keep an eye on it to make sure Moriarty didn’t sever the connection.

The wall where the shadows were deepest blew in, the rubble hitting his shields and deflecting without giving away where Molly was. Moriarty strolled in with that damned smirk on his face, looking as though he already knew who the victor would be and that it would be him. “Really, Sherlock? That was all you could manage to do? I’m rather disappointed. You’re supposed to be the brightest heir of Merlin in an age.” He raised a hand and snapped his fingers, and the roof of the cell exploded, sending stone shooting outward and sunlight streaming in. 

“You didn’t leave me many resources,” Sherlock said with a shrug. “Making do with what I have is the mark of a good wizard.”

“It’s cheating,” Moriarty said.

“Like you don’t cheat,” Sherlock said, giving him a look of contempt. “You sacrifice others to get your powers. You boasted your father was your first sacrifice. That makes you one of the worst type of Undesirables out there. Your powers are only bartered for, not earned.”

The smirk dropped off Moriarty’s face in an instant and Sherlock could tell he had hit a nerve. Perhaps this could be exploited. “I did earn those powers,” Moriarty said.

“Through dedication and study? Or through murder and mayhem?” Sherlock said, moving closer. “I think it was the latter. I think you bartered with things belonging to other people. You lied. You stole. _You_ cheated. All of the power you have...you don’t deserve it. It’s all empty and meaningless. It’s not _true_ power.”

“IT IS!” Moriarty shouted, but Sherlock had gotten close enough not to throw magic at him, but to punch him in the face with his fist. Sometimes the unexpected was enough to stun an opponent into doing something foolish, and Moriarty obliged by stumbling backward and casting out magic blasts wildly. While Sherlock had used the glyphs in the ceiling to help protect Molly that wasn’t all he had used, and he increased the strength of the spell as he sent a direct blast to Moriarty’s chest to try and incapacitate him.

But by then Moriarty had recovered some of his composure and began to pull weather magic upon them, bringing clouds over the previously sunny sky. Sherlock could feel the oncoming electricity of lightning in the air at the back of his neck and knew that was something his magic could not protect against unless he was in contact with Molly. When they first lightning bolt hit near his feet he dove to where she was, covering her with his body and enveloping them both with the shield while lightning danced around them.

“He’s absolutely bonkers!” Molly said.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, calculating in his head how to fix the mess Moriarty was making by fooling with the weather while turning it to his advantage. Weather magic was dangerous to dabble in and had never been his forte, but there were a few things he knew. Slowly he worked on turning the clouds into the type that would snow, making the snow into a heavy blizzard that would blanket them all with at least a foot of snow. He hoped Toby’s magic was still working in Molly but that at least he could spring some surprises on Moriarty. Once he was sure the lightning strike had stopped he let her go and moved out from under the shield.

And waiting right outside was Moriarty, who met him with a left hook to the face. Sherlock fell back against the shield as Moriarty took some of the heavily falling snow and formed it into the shape of a blade before changing it into ice and went to stab Sherlock in the heart, but Sherlock pushed him away at the last moment and was nicked by the blade in the arm. This had been a good idea but it backfired, he realized as Moriarty recovered and began to make projectiles out of snow.

There was only one thing left to do. He had to take the fight elsewhere. If he died...if he died, Moriarty would go after Molly. After Mycroft. After John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and anyone else he cared for.

So he needed to make Moriarty disappear for good, at least as well as he could.

Unfortunately, that meant he would disappear as well.

But a sacrifice like that would do more good than anyone could imagine. There was no guarantee they would _stay_ gone, that they wouldn’t slip back into this world at times, but Moriarty was too much of a danger. He had been for a long time. He had known that and had ignored it and now was the time to correct his oversight.

And there was only one spell that would work.

He began the spell, the one spell few dared to try, a spell he knew his brother had never wanted him to know but had left for him to see in his tomes because even Mycroft knew it might come down to this. For a spell of such importance, it was so very simple. So short, and it required only two things. He picked up the discarded ice dagger just as he heard a commotion from the blown out wall. 

Just as he saw Mycroft and John and armed wizards come into view.

The spell required his blood and Moriarty’s blood and a few simple words. And as he broke the one keeping Molly safe and cut his palm, saying the words to the spell he needed to say to take himself and Moriarty far far away, as he felt ice projectiles hit him in various parts of his skin, as he saw himself stab the ice dagger into Moriarty’s hand and then yank it out, slamming their bleeding palms together, his last thought as a golden yellow light enveloped them was this:

They were all safe, and this was worth it.


	17. Chapter 17

**\- EPILOGUE -**

The rosebud Sherlock had given her in the cell sat on her desk whenever she was at work. When she was done with work, it was very carefully transported home and set next to her bed. Mycroft had told her that nothing would kill it, barring Sherlock’s death. “ _Something created from magic will only die when the caster is dead_ ” were his exact words, so while the rose was still alive, even though it was simply a rosebud, she knew Sherlock was still alive.

Something she couldn’t really share with John, but somehow, she felt he knew already.

He had peppered her with questions about everything. How long she had known, what it had been like, and even accusatory questions like how she could have kept it from him, Sherlock’s best mate. She’d finally snapped and said there were things he didn’t know that she had been privy to due to her past and if he wanted _real_ answers Mycroft was alive and breathing and he could try and pry them out of him. She’d felt bad for the outburst but it had done some good. Mycroft knew John could be trusted, obviously, since he’d been there to rescue them...her...and he was given some answers. Not as many as _she_ had, of course, but enough to let him feel as though he was privy to the _real_ Sherlock.

She started having tea weekly with Mycroft and his assistant. For some reason, Mycroft leaned on her in a way she had the feeling he seldom leaned on mortals. Sherlock had trusted her and Mycroft felt he could too, in a way he couldn’t trust John. They talked about Sherlock’s past, and she learned more about the boy he had been and the troubled young man he had grown into, and then the strong minded and strong willed man she had come to know. It was obvious, to her at least, Mycroft missed his brother, wherever he was.

And wherever he was, he was making work of things.

The mortal remnants of Moriarty’s empire were falling away, Mycroft would tell her that, but so were the magical aspects he’d never been able to crack. Bit by bit, the best of their kind were finding cracks in the shell that protected Moriarty’s web and were able to strike, taking down some of the worst of the Undesirables, cleaning up messes that had long been a problem. Mycroft was sure it was his brother’s doing, and Molly agreed. She was happy that the problem was being taken care of.

But she, too, missed Sherlock.

She watched as people moved on and lived their lives. She tried herself. Dated a few men, almost became serious with one bloke named Tom. Watched John meet a lovely woman named Mary Morstan who Mycroft said was an ex-assassin, one of the best in her field, but had gotten out of the game and perhaps been nudged towards John with a little magical push, courtesy of a certain friend of John’s. She wondered why Sherlock had done nothing similar for her. But there was nothing for it, she supposed. Life moved on, and while others were happy she continued forward, doing her work at Barts, having her weekly tea with Mycroft and Anthea, and feeling as though her life would be spent with Toby and no one else.

Then early one morning, everything changed.

It had been nearly two years since the time in the magical cell. She’d had a fitful night’s sleep, and suddenly there was the soothing scent of rose in the room, and she felt calmer, more at peace. She started to drift back to sleep when she realized she wasn’t alone. Her first thought was panic: was Moriarty back? Was he trying to lull her into sleep to kidnap her again and do worse this time? She opened her eyes and forced herself to sit up and look around, but the feeling that there was someone else in the room was gone. She shook her head, and then she saw the rose on her nightstand.

It was in full bloom.

“Sherlock?” she called out softly, before throwing her covers off and putting her feet on the floor. “Sherlock?!?”

“You were supposed to ease into sleep,” she heard his voice say, moving towards her room from the hallway near the guest bedroom.

Relief flooded through her and she dashed out of her room into the hallway to see him standing there sans Belstaff, his hair longer and the curls slightly knotted, his clothes rumpled and dirty with tears in them, and various cuts and bruises to be seen in the dim light coming from the guest bedroom on his body. Her heart ached to see him in such a condition and she moved closer, hesitating to touch his face for a moment before she did, her touch gentle. “You should have let me wake up,” she said.

“You need rest,” he replied, shutting his eyes when her hand touched his face.

“And you need care,” she replied. “To the loo. Now.” She removed her hand to turn him towards her guest bathroom. It had the better first aid kit, and she’d make sure to patch him up properly. He dutifully complied, and then sat on the toilet as she busied herself with getting the kit and seeing what she had to deal with. Cuts, scrapes, bruises...even a burn or two. And that was just what she could see under the torn clothing. “Strip to your pants.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but complied. Under other circumstances she might have ogled but when she saw the damage two years had done… She ran her fingers over scars and shook her head. “Is he dead?” she asked.

“Defeated and imprisoned for the crimes he committed. Despite it all, he deserved a trial among my kind, even though he is _not_ my kind,” he said. “He’s been dealt with. We’re safe.” He reached over for her hand and held it. “You’re safe.”

She squeezed it back and gave him a smile. “Good.” Then she let go and began to treat his wounds. It took time, but soon she had him fairly well taken care of. The scars she could do nothing about, but he didn’t seem to mind them. She had clothing left by Tom that would fit Sherlock, and when she was finished she got it for him to sleep in. Even with bandages peeking out and his hair still a mess, he looked much better. “You can sleep in my bed tonight. It’s more comfortable.”

“There’s no need to give up your space,” he said.

“It was always your favourite spot,” she said.

He reached over for her hand and then played with her fingers for a moment. “Will you stay with me tonight? Just...in case.”

She nodded. She knew nothing would happen. There would be no surprise shagging or anything like that. But comforting...that might happen. And it was sorely needed in his case. And she would never turn him away from comfort, not after everything he had done for her. Never. The bond they had formed was too strong to break, it seemed.

And it made her wonder what was in the future for them, now that he was home.


End file.
